


Say It with Flowers

by dawnperhaps



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-18
Updated: 2012-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-16 13:22:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnperhaps/pseuds/dawnperhaps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was just a routine delivery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Purple Hyacinths

**Author's Note:**

> Florist Sam and Secretary Gabriel. This was originally meant to be my Sabriel Minibang, but I didn’t finish it in time. So I’ve decided to post it now in individual chapters. It was inspired by every romantic comedy ever made.

“Hey, could you tell me where… Excuse me, could you… I just need… no, okay, keep walking, then.”

Sam gets lost on the way to the CEO’s office.  He doesn’t really do this sort of thing very often – deliveries, navigation, and human interaction – but he decided it was worth a shot if it meant giving his delivery boy his much-deserved time off.  He felt confident when he left the flower shop; he was told it was just a quick elevator ride, but the building he parks his company’s humble little van in front of has about fifty floors, thirty of which have labels with the word “executive” in them.  He stands in front of the directory for ten minutes, trying to decide whether this CEO Michael Milligan guy would be more likely to be found in the “Executive Lounge,” the “Executive Board Room,” or one of the twenty-six different “Executive Suites,” lettered A1 to F9.  He tries to ask about a dozen passersby, but the people around him are all dressed in suits, walking double time, talking on Bluetooth earpieces, and pointedly ignoring the guy in the dirt-smudged delivery uniform holding a vase of purple flowers.  He supposes he can’t blame them.  He doesn’t particularly want to be talking to them either, after all – the rich, handsome, ridiculously successful people who demean his modest career accomplishments every day just by existing – especially when he could be back behind his counter, arranging the Halloween bouquets and cornucopias that he hopes people will pick up for their themed parties.  Flowers make sense.  Flowers respect him.  Not that they have much of a choice.

After a mental coin toss, he decides to stop on the top floor and work his way down.  The elevator is full of sharply dressed men who all give his hulking six-foot-four frame and dirty apron an extra foot of room.  He stares at the crack between the doors and tries not to breathe too heavily.

It’s a long ride to the top of the building, but, luckily, his mental coin toss serves him well.  Apparently, the reason he couldn’t find a room number is because the CEO’s office is actually the entire top floor, an enormous, sky-lit room that may have once been a penthouse.  When he walks out of the elevator, he finds himself standing on a red carpet between rows of ceiling-to-floor windows, all leading to a curved, silver reception desk with the words “Milligan & Co. Capital Management” on the wall behind it in big, golden block letters.  Next to the desk is a huge set of double doors that Sam guesses Mr. Milligan is behind.  He’s suddenly glad he doesn’t have to meet the guy.

At first glance, it appears that no one is sitting behind the desk, but as Sam walks forward, he finds a man lounging in a chair, his feet kicked up and a book in hand.  He’s in a shirt and tie, but looks much more relaxed than the other businesspeople Sam saw downstairs.  Sam knows that it is rude to stare and it is definitely rude to check someone out while you’re on the job, but his eyes linger.  The guy is cute.  He’s obviously a little on the short side and his blonde hair is combed back but still slightly disheveled, which is cliché, but Sam’s sort of a sucker for that.  His lips move as he reads and Sam smiles before he can stop himself.  When the man finally looks up and notices Sam, however, Sam has to catch his breath because, if the guy was cute before, he’s gorgeous with those unusually amber eyes catching the light and practically glowing.

“Can I help you?” he asks slowly, not bothering to keep the judgment from his voice.  At first, Sam’s horrified that he’s been caught staring, but then he remembers what he’s wearing.  His dirt-to-clothes ratio is probably significantly higher than most of the people who walk in this particular office.

“Oh!” he exclaims, and only just barely manages to remember to hold up the bouquet, offering the secretary an expectant smile.  Sure enough, the man’s face floods with realization and he laughs, his eyes lighting up with a wry sort of mirth.  Sam doesn’t know what’s funny, but nervous laughter bubbles up in his chest anyway.

“Right on time,” the secretary says, leaning back in his chair with a smirk.  “I was beginning to think Luci hadn’t done anything to screw up this week.”

“Not your first flower delivery?” Sam asks casually, beginning the dig for his clipboard with his free hand.  He doesn’t look at the addresses on the flowers very much; Adam always takes care of the order information and delivery.  Sam just works with the arrangements themselves.

“Oh, yeah.  Always from Lucifer, Mr. Milligan’s husband,” the blonde explains, standing to take the flowers from Sam’s hand and set them on the desk.  He talks like they’re old friends and these chats happen daily.  “And boy, does he earn his name.  Last week, he came home blacked out on tequila and broke one of the keepsakes that’s been in Michael’s family for, like… ever.  And the week before that, he called Michael’s father a deadbeat over dinner.  So this is a pretty usual thing.”  He looks at the tag on the vase and smiles up at Sam.  “Same flower company.  You must be new, huh?”

“Actually, I’m the florist,” Sam tells him.  He might announce it with a little more pride, were he anywhere but here.  “My delivery guy needed the night off to write a term paper.”

“What a kind and benevolent boss you are,” the blonde teases.  “Michael barely lets me off for holidays.”

“I was in college once.  I know what it’s like.”

“Well, I’m sorry you have to be here in this little dysfunctional and predictable family,” the secretary says with a sigh as he looks over the flowers.  He frowns when he sees the violet blooms and Sam briefly panics, wondering if Michael’s secretary would have some way to know that Sam got a little more creative than usual.  He’s not supposed to alter orders, especially considering people normally pay up front, but sometimes he finds himself getting a little nosy, reading the card, and changing the flower choice to fit the circumstances.  He hasn’t gotten a complaint yet, of course, considering he’s his own boss and the more flower-challenged customers are normally grateful for his intercession.

“These are different,” the secretary continues, curiously touching the petals of one of the flowers.  “Normally, the guy isn’t much more creative than roses.”  He offers Sam a sly smile that makes Sam’s heart do something bizarre and somewhat unpleasant in his chest, the same kind of jarring feeling one gets when they expect their candy to be sweet and it turns out to be tart, like a basketball to the stomach.  Sam glances down at the man’s desk to find his name card, which reads ‘Gabriel Novak, Executive Administrative Assistant.’

 _Gabriel_.

“He ordered roses,” Sam admits sheepishly.  “But he wanted an ‘I’m sorry’ card to go with them and roses are more of a happy ‘I just love you’ sort of flower.”

Gabriel makes a face like he actually finds that interesting, which isn’t the reaction Sam normally gets to his flower related tangents.  Although Sam does spend an unhealthy amount of time with his brother, Dean, who tends to guard his society-defined masculinity with all the ferocity of a dog with a t-bone steak.  But Gabriel is maintaining strangely intense eye contact and Sam has to admit that he doesn’t really know how to handle that, but maybe he really does need to get out more.

“What are these?” Gabriel asks expectantly, as if the question was implied.

“Oh, I didn’t- …uh, purple hyacinths,” Sam tells him, straightening one of the blooms out and smiling sheepishly at his arrangement.  He’d spent a little extra time on it.  He has a weak spot for people who hurt their significant others and care enough to apologize with flowers.  He’s hasn’t been in that position in a very long time, but flower arranging allows him to live vicariously through the relationships of his clients.  Although, if this really is a regular thing for Michael and Lucifer Milligan, maybe he should stay away from this particular thought experiment.

“Which are more of a… ‘Sorry I was a dick again’ flower?” Gabriel guesses, leaning over his desk like he might be flirting.

“Yeah, it’s sort of a cool story,” Sam says enthusiastically, bringing up his hands and gesturing vaguely.  “There’s a Greek legend about a Spartan boy – named Hyacinth, obviously – who was accidently struck and killed by Apollo while Apollo was playing an ancient version of horseshoes.  A flower grew from his blood and Apollo called it a hyacinth to commemorate the boy.  So now it symbolizes regret and a request for forgiveness.”

Immediately after he finishes his explanation, he feels like an idiot, rambling about Greek mythology and flowers and a story which is, admittedly, a little gruesome.  But Gabriel is still staring at him like he’s intrigued, smiling at Sam curiously like he’s trying to figure out what makes him tick.  Sam offers him an repentant half-smile, ready to apologize if he’s wasting the guy’s time.

“You’ve really done your research,” Gabriel muses, his voice dropping to a lower octave, like Sam’s nerdy flower knowledge is a turn on.  Sam irrationally wonders if this tiny secretary might be his soulmate, but that might be a side effect of being completely transfixed by his weirdly golden irises.  They aren’t actually gold; they’re a light hazel with yellow surrounding the pupils like little tiny suns.  Something in Sam’s mind mentions the idea that this particular coloration is probably the effect of some sort of central heterochromia before the nonacademic part of his mind fervently whispers shut up, shut up,  _shut up_  and try to be normal.

“Yeah, I, uh… really like that sort of stuff,” Sam explains.  “Mythology and deeper meanings.  There’s a lot to learn.  Out there.  In the world.”

Gabriel nods and looks at the flowers with a thoughtful smile.  He smirks a little when he looks back at Sam and finds him staring.

“You want me to sign something?” he asks, lifting a pen from his desk and wiggling in between his fingers.

“Oh, right,” Sam exclaims, remembering his original plan to present the clipboard and fumbling through his bag for it again.  “I should have your boss sign, but-”

“You’ll never get him out of his office.  The guy barely eats,” Gabriel interrupts with a wave of his hand.  “I sign for everything.”

“Yeah.  Okay.”  Dean’s voice is in the back of Sam’s head, screaming at him to not be lame for once in his life, to actually make a move on someone he’s interested in.  How many times has Dean caught him staring at someone from across the bar, or even just discreetly eyeing someone’s book on the subway, wondering if they’d be compatible just because they both enjoy  _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_.  Dean would probably scoff if Sam described the feeling he had in his chest, the one that says that something feels right, something feels like an opportunity that needs taking, but Dean would definitely tell him to grow a pair and take a chance, if not on love than at least on sex.  To be honest, Sam hasn’t had either in a very long time.

“You know if you want to put your phone number on there, too,” he begins slowly, the tightness in his chest barely allowing him the air he needs to get the words out.  “I wouldn’t mind seeing you again some time.  Maybe for coffee?”

For a moment, Gabriel smiles and continues to write and Sam breathes a sigh of relief.  Whether or not he’ll actually call Gabriel is a different story, of course, but this is one battle won, one step toward developing an actual social life.  But then the secretary looks up at him in complete and utter confusion, apparently having just fully processed Sam’s words, and he might as well have punched Sam right in his dignity.  A look of realization comes over Gabriel’s face and Sam just runs a weary hand through his hair because, of course; this is his life after all.

“You’re asking me out,” Gabriel says.

Sam offers him an uncomfortable smile.  “Maybe we should pretend I wasn’t.”

“I was flirting, wasn’t I?”  Gabriel laments, running a hand through his hair, his eyes filling with sympathy that just embarrasses Sam more.  “Shit, I’m sorry.  You’re just really my type, you know?  I mean, fuck, you’re probably everyone’s type.”  He sucks in a frustrated breath through his teeth.  “Wow, I’m still doing it.  That’s got to be some kind of asshole record.”

“It’s okay,” Sam assures him, even though his heart is somewhere in his shoes at this point.  Or maybe that’s his self-respect.  Whenever it is, it feels like crap.  “It was sort of a long shot.”

“No, no!” Gabriel insists.  “It’s not like that.  It’s not like I’m not interested.  I mean, I’m  _not_ interested.  Because I  _can’t_  be.”

“Seeing someone?” Sam guesses.  It would be a mercy, at this point, to have an alternate explanation for the rejection.  Not that his lack of charm and bizarre personality haven’t done the trick all on their own in the past.

“Baldur,” Gabriel says, wincing like it’s a dirty word.  He looks a little disgusted when he adds, “Baldur Breidablik?”

“Breidablik?” Sam repeats, frowning as he tries to figure out why that name sounds so ridiculously familiar.  His eyes widen when he finally puts two and two together.  “As in… Breidablik Financial?”

“Yeah, I know, I’m a horrible employee,” Gabriel says, leaning over his desk like they’re a couple of gossiping school children.  Sam doesn’t know much about the world of high profiling investing, but he does know that Breidablik Financial and Milligan & Co. Capital Management are incredibly non-friendly rivals.

“My friend, Kali, set us up,” Gabriel continues, cruising straight into the realm of ‘too much information to give the guy you just shot down.’  “It was a joke at first.  Then, out of nowhere, it wasn’t.”

“I’m sure he’s a great guy,” Sam offers, really wishing he could turn tail and run out of the building.  Of course he not only misinterpreted the situation, he also asked out the boyfriend of one of the most high-powered CEOs in the city.

“He’s not,” Gabriel admits, rolling his eyes.  He winces again when he says, “He’s just really, really… rich.”

“Oh.  Umm, well, financial security is really important, and-”

“It’s nice of you to defend my honor, but I’m pretty sure I don’t have any,” Gabriel interrupts with a self-deprecating smile.  “Honestly, I wish I would have met you six months ago.”  He makes another face, like he’s surprised at the words coming out of his mouth.  “Wow.  Maybe you should leave before I start waxing poetic about your eyes or something.”

Sam, all too happy for an escape, snatches the clipboard from the desk.  He looks down and notices it’s only half signed, but he figures he owns the flower shop; he’ll finish the rest of it off later.

“Enjoy the flowers,” he offers before he turns and practically bolts to the elevator.  It only takes  _twelve godforsaken minutes_  – and yes, of course he’s counting – to climb to the top floor.  Meanwhile, Gabriel disappears behind his desk again and doesn’t make a sound, and Sam checks his phone eight times and reads through the delivery disclaimer twice.

The men in the elevator give him a ridiculous amount of room once again, but Sam is sort of glad this time around.  He doesn’t think he could control his breathing if he tried.

\---

Purple Hyacinths, "forgiveness"


	2. Lemon Scented Geraniums

Gabriel hates coffee runs. It isn't that he thinks they shouldn't be part of his job description; he does so little at his job that his salary is practically criminal. If Michael didn't have a certain fondness for him, he'd probably be making minimum wage. For what it's worth, he's very good at the few tasks he has. He never mismanages Michael's appointments, he always makes sure Michael is aware of the important calls and screens the less important ones, and his electronic filing system is immaculate. Nevertheless, the job is never a source of stress for him. He never finds himself rushing to the office early to get all his work done and he never has to stay late, unlike Michael, who has been known to sleep in his office when he feels like his work is piling up. Michael isn't very demanding as long as Gabriel shows up to work every day - sometimes including holidays, much to Gabriel's chagrin - and gets his work done. Gabriel never dreamed of answering phones and doing data entry from nine to five everyday as a child, but he has to admit that he's good at it and the pay is fantastic, considering how labor intensive it isn’t. For all intents and purposes, Gabriel is very fond of his job.

But coffee runs.  Those he could do without.  Filling out paperwork and organizing Michael’s records and balancing the precarious thing that is Michael’s schedule are tasks that involve dignity and skill.  Playing _fetch_ is an entirely different sort of activity.

“I don’t want foam,” Michael tells him as he’s leaving, and Gabriel knows it’s his own fault and the fault of three too many shots of Akevitt last night, but he woke up feeling like his brain had been bulldozed and the idea of sunlight and fresh air makes him want to throw up all over Michael’s French silk tie.

“I do this every day!” he snaps.  “I would know your coffee order if I were in a _coma_.  Stop reminding me like I’m a goldfish or something.”

Michael holds up a silencing finger and pulls out his cellphone and Gabriel considers the amount of force that would be required to kill Michael with his envelope opener before deciding Michael and his pilates classes would probably come out on top of that battle.

Gabriel manages to boost his mood a little by listening to REO Speedwagon – _Hi Infidelity,_ obviously – on his way to the coffee shop, skipping around taxis and bicyclists as he does so.  He’s climbing his way out of ‘hungover and furious’ and into ‘plain old hungover’ by the time he pushes the door open to Michael’s favorite organic coffeehouse.  It’s a locally owned business that Michael probably prefers in order to atone for the fact that he’s one of those Wall Street CEOs who are driving the rest of the world into poverty.  Or something like that.  Gabriel doesn’t really like economics, and while the Occupy movement is intriguing, it also seems to require sleeping in tents and yelling a lot, and camping and conflict aren’t really on his bucket list, either.

When the man at the counter apologetically tells him that the grinder in their espresso machine is malfunctioning, all the “Take It on the Run” in the world couldn’t wipe the scowl off his face.

“We’re working on getting it fixed,” the man promises.  “Or, you could just, you know.  Go to the chain coffeeshop down the street.”

Which is how Gabriel finds himself inside the tiny café two blocks from his usual coffeeshop, squinting at the menu as he tries to work out the differences in price.  The smell of lemon scented geraniums is almost overwhelming and he notices after a moment that the far wall near the window is lined with them, about ten pots sitting in a row and basking in the glow of the sun streaming in.

The girl behind the counter, a brunette with a slightly manic smile, motions him over.  He thumbs off “Keep On Loving You,” which is a shame, really, but all he wants is to be back behind his desk doing venerable things, like stamping Michael’s signature at the bottom of letters.

“I need a medium decaf vanilla soy latte at 160 degrees with no foam,” Gabriel tells the girl slowly, finding himself impressed when she takes the somewhat complicated order in stride.  Encouraged, he begins rattling off the rest of his order without pause.  “Four small coffees, two with cream and sugar, three scones, a blueberry muffin, two ham and egg breakfast sandwiches, and I’d like a large iced white mocha.  With whipped cream and cinnamon dolce syrup.  Please.”

“Sure thing,” the barista says with a smile, and then sets off to retrieving his pastries.  The barista at his usual coffeehouse is normally glaring at this point, looking down her nose and over her thick framed glasses at him, and Gabriel’s more than a little awed.

The door to the shop dings while Gabriel’s pulling out his wallet, and the barista turns and smiles at the newcomer, but Gabriel doesn’t bother to follow her stare when she enthusiastically greets, “Hi, Sam!”

 “Hey, Becky.  How are the geraniums doing?”

“Great!  Much better now that we moved them into the sunlight.”

Now that gets Gabriel’s attention, because he knows that voice.  Or at least, he’s been acquainted with that voice.  When he turns to look, he finds himself having to avert his stare upwards into the stupidly green eyes of the florist who walked into his office almost a whole week ago.  His breath punches out of him just like it did the first time they met, and, just like that first time, the florist doesn’t seem to notice.  Gabriel’s surprised expression is reflected in those green eyes when the florist finally looks down and discovers Gabriel, only there are a few different emotions joining that surprise.  The most obvious of them all is terror.

Gabriel, having quickly recovered air, smiles to himself as he watches the man furiously wipe his hands off on his apron – which is lime green and covered in smudges of many different shades of brown – before running his fingers through his slightly tousled hair.  The barista – or Becky, Gabriel knows now – had called him Sam.

_Sam._

“Well, don’t you look familiar,” Gabriel teases, snickering when the florist starts holding up his hands to protest his innocence, despite the fact that Gabriel hasn’t even accused him of anything.

“I’m not-” Sam starts, looking incredibly flustered.  “My flower shop is across the street.  I’ve never seen you here, I didn’t think-”

“You weren’t following me?” Gabriel translates with a smirk that might be a little cruel considering how mortified the kid looks.

“No, no way!” Sam insists.  His horrified expression breaks into a slightly nervous grin.  “And I didn’t see you in line or I would have… done something really awkward, like circled the block a couple times or something.”

The barista chooses that moment to return with four neatly wrapped pastries and two sandwiches in heat resistant bags.  There’s a tray of four neatly marked coffees sitting in front of him.  “Is that all?” she asks with a way too friendly smile.  Gabriel eyes her suspiciously for a moment, trying to determine if this is all for a tip before turning back to Sam and the crumbled bills he’s holding in his hand, probably only enough to pay for whatever drink he’s about to order.

 “And whatever he’s having,” Gabriel decides, shoving his credit card across the counter.

“You don’t have to do that,” Sam says, making a half-hearted attempt to grab for the card.  His smile is a little self-deprecating when he adds, “You don’t owe me a coffee because I mistakenly hit on you.”  He seems a little more at ease, however, so Gabriel happily ignores him.

“The usual?” Becky asks brightly, already writing Sam’s order on a paper cup.  Gabriel doesn’t like to judge people (besides Michael) for their coffee preferences, but there seem to be a lot of symbols involved in Sam’s usual order.

“No,” Sam says quickly.  “I’ll, uh… have a large black coffee.”

The girl looks surprised, but stops writing and turns away from them, moving toward the drip coffee makers.

“Really, this is so unnecessary,” Sam says, rolling his eyes at himself.

“It’s a company credit card,” Gabriel tells him.  “Calm down.”  Sam doesn’t seem to calm down, but Gabriel doesn’t look at him again until they leave.  Not only because Sam is a clearly some sort of Greek god, but also because the kid is sipping his coffee like it tastes like mud, and Gabriel isn’t sure how long he could watch that happen before he would end up calling him out on it.  Instead, he watches milk steam and continues to breathe in the lemony scent of the geraniums, which smell a little sweeter now that Gabriel knows where they came from.

By the time they both leave the coffeeshop, Gabriel is doing his best to perfect a balancing act, one that he’s never quite mastered in the years of doing these ridiculous coffee runs.  Honestly, Milligan and Co. should have some wide-eyed intern doing this, someone who hasn’t lived in the real world long enough to know that making coffee runs is the epitome of bitch work.  Although Gabriel does quite a bit of bitching to make up for it.

“You look like you’re struggling a little bit there,” Sam mentions, glancing at Gabriel’s hands.

“I’m not struggling,” he argues, staring down at the cups he has balanced precariously atop one another, creating a bizarre sort of pyramid over the single tray he was given to carry everything back with.  “I’m an administrative assistant.  I do this for a living.”

“Well, I’m not a secretary, but I could-”

“ _Administrative.  Assistant_.”

Sam smiles.  “But I could help you, if you want.”

Gabriel has only the briefest moment of pause before he shuffles his drink and Michael’s drink into Sam’s hands, leaving the sandwiches and pastries atop the four smaller coffee cups.  He realizes that this course of action will put Sam in his office all over again and that isn’t really fair to either of them, but, then again, they’re both adults and Gabriel enjoys Sam’s dorky personality almost as much as he enjoys Sam’s weirdly perfect face, and there’s no reason he can’t be professional about this, or perhaps even platonically unprofessional.

“It’s almost insulting, you know, to be sent out for decaf coffee,” Gabriel tells him, shaking his head in aggravation.  It’s not riveting conversation by any stretch of the imagination, but Gabriel rarely sees people during the day besides Michael and the occasional client, so he finds himself talking just to talk, just because he has an ear to complain to.  It’s the sort of thing that Kali would cite as a reason she’s his only friend, but Sam doesn’t show any outwards signs of annoyance.  “It’s like, I might as well pick up some invisible printer ink and some tape that doesn’t stick to anything while I’m out.”

“Some people just like the taste, I guess,” Sam reasons.

“It’s not just coffee.  Michael orders a decaf vanilla soy latte with no foam,” Gabriel complains.  “Who orders like that?”

Sam just laughs a little nervously.  Gabriel suspects it’s because his usual coffee order involves some sort of flavored syrup and pretentious choice of milk.

They take the elevator back, chatting about REO Speedwagon and the possible merits of tape that doesn’t stick to anything, and Sam even waits as Gabriel drops off the four additional coffees to Michael’s various underlings.  By the time they arrive back at Gabriel’s desk, Gabriel is surprisingly comfortable with this stranger he only just met, and he thinks he knows more about Sam’s favorite music than he does Baldur’s.  Baldur probably likes stupid music anyway.  Most of the things Baldur likes are an incredibly awful combination of stupid and ostentatious.

Gabriel silently files that thought away to share with Baldur later.  Insults often lead to incredibly fantastic sex.

 “Hey,” Gabriel says, knocking his elbow into Sam’s arm and giving him a crooked smile.  “No hard feelings.  Seriously.”

Gabriel marvels at the fact that this beautiful, statuesque man can morph from a Greek god into a awkward, prepubescent boy in less than two seconds, looking sheepish and uncertain.  It’s so strange because Gabriel’s always assumed that with great looks comes great confidence, but Sam seems as humble as the next person.  It’s just another reason Gabriel likes him.  He’d like to kick it off platonically, maybe have a friend to grab coffee or a beer with sometime, but he doesn’t want to push it on the off chance that he’s making Sam uncomfortable.

“If you say so,” Sam agrees, although he doesn’t meet Gabriel’s eyes.

“I do.”

“Yeah, okay.  I’ll… uh, see you around.”

“On accident, right?” Gabriel teases, grinning when Sam rolls his eyes.

“I swear to God, I had no idea you got coffee there.”

“I _don’t_ get coffee there.”

Gabriel waits until Sam disappears back into the elevator to collapse into his office chair and add, “Except I do now.”

“Who was that?” Michael asks, suddenly appearing beside his office door.

“You stay in there all day without lifting your head once,” Gabriel says, raising an eyebrow at his boss and pulling his own monstrosity of a drink over to his lips.  “And one strange voice has you on your feet and out the door?”

Michael ignores Gabriel – it’s something of a talent of his – and cranes his neck a little, peering suspiciously at the elevators.  Gabriel doesn’t like that look.  It’s more than suspicion; it’s knowledge.  “Was that the florist?”

“What florist?” Gabriel asks with comically wide eyes.

“Your florist,” Michael says casually, as if he didn’t just insinuate about ten different things.  Gabriel doesn’t think he likes any of those things and he isn’t shy about letting it show on his face, his scowl only deepening as a rare smirk crosses Michael’s face.  He mentioned the guy once – maybe twice – in the past two weeks, and Michael scooped it up and ran with it like an overbearing parent.  Which isn’t too far from what Michael actually is, when he isn’t a drill sergeant.

“Don’t start with me,” Gabriel snaps, pointing an accusing finger.  “If I wanted the kind of personal life advice I’d get from you, I’d watch Jerry Springer.”

“We do _not_ belong on Jerry Springer.  Lucifer sent hyacinths the other day.  That was almost thoughtful,” Michael argues, leaning against his doorframe and crossing one leg over the other.  His tie is a little loose, his jacket is missing, and he looks a million times more comfortable than he normally does, all pressed lines and starched folds.  Seeing him so relaxed is almost enough to make Gabriel content with withstanding his sass.  Almost.

“No, he sent roses again,” Gabriel says, always happy to rat Lucifer out, as long as he judges all the possible consequences to be less than catastrophic.  “Sam read his card, saw that Luci was being a dick, and picked hyacinths because they mean forgiveness or something.”

Michael’s smirk only grows.  “So his name is Sam.”

Gabriel is completely unused to being outsmarted, especially by the likes of Michael, the world’s most notorious stick in the mud, so he can’t conceal his look of shock.  Of course Lucifer would have told him.  The man makes a point of never seeming too thoughtful; it’s his only ace in the hole in his relationship with Michael, a high-powered business executive who could probably do better.

“Oh, so you’re tricky now?”

“I learned from the best,” Michael says with a shrug before picking up his latte and his sandwich and disappearing into his office again.  Gabriel rolls his eyes and vows to electrify Michael’s tin of paperclips.  Or maybe he’ll just replace all of Michael’s rubberbands with Silly Bands.  He does like his job after all.

Michael’s husband strolls out of the elevator three hours later while Gabriel is taking a call, the phone caught in between his shoulder and his ear as he keys in another appointment for Michael.  Lucifer isn’t exactly dressed for the office; his jeans and open brown button down look like he’s owned them for years and his army green t-shirt isn’t exactly giving him the pop of color he needs.  But he’s tall, blonde, and ruggedly handsome.  Michael tends to praise the man’s incredibly blue eyes when he’s drunk and Gabriel has to admit that Lucifer, physically, is something of a catch.  If nothing else, the two of them are incredibly pretty together.

“Gabriel,” Lucifer greets disinterestedly when Gabriel puts the phone back in its cradle.  “I don’t suppose he’s ready to go.”

Gabriel laughs at him.  “What do you think?”

“I think if someone wasn’t so stubborn about finishing some ridiculous amount of work before lunch and before, oh, _everything_ , this marriage thing would be a hell of a lot easier.”

“I’m not stubborn.  You’re just always wrong,” comes Michael’s voice from his office, and Gabriel grins when Lucifer’s cocky expression falls and he turns a glare toward Michael’s office doors.  Michael appears moments later with his briefcase glued to his hand, looking unimpressed with Lucifer’s angry frown.

“You’ll pay for that comment later,” the blond man growls, but something sparkles in his eyes, something Gabriel definitely wants no part in.

“I look forward to it,” Michael answers meaningfully, and Lucifer’s resulting grin is downright predatory.

“No, no, no,” Gabriel exclaims, covering his ears dramatically.  “I don’t want to know about any of the freaky sex you two get into to smother your respective daddy issues.  Save it for the bedroom.  Or the dungeon.  And don’t tell me which one it is.”

“Jealous?” Lucifer purrs, eyes still locked on Michael, even though the other has abandoned the game in order to lock the door to his office.

“I cannot even begin to describe how incredibly _not jealous_ I am of your little soap opera.”

Michael is smiling when he turns to leave, but he glances back at Gabriel.

“Have you eaten?” he asks, suddenly morphing from a boss into a friend.  He’s always been good about that and, truth be told, Gabriel appreciates it.  “Should we bring you something?”

“Nah, I’ll step out later,” Gabriel promises.  He moves his hands in a shooing motion, ignoring Michael’s slightly indignant glare and Lucifer’s bemused eyebrow raise.  “Now go have lunch with your husband.  Before he throws a tantrum and wrecks my office.  I just dusted and I don’t plan on doing it again for another two years.”

“I expect a cup of coffee to be waiting for me when I return,” Lucifer says, leading Michael out of the office with a hand on the small of his back.  A look of concern crosses Michael’s face and he turns around like he might want to check something else – probably his email – but Lucifer catches him around the waist and begins to bodily move him toward the elevators, pressing a placating kiss to his temple when he opens his mouth to complain.

“Fat chance, not-boss,” Gabriel replies, but a fond smile touches his lips as he watches them, Lucifer’s request long forgotten in the older man’s mind as he silently argues with Michael about leaving.

“I just got an email from-”

“If you say your father, I will fly to Malibu or wherever it is he fucked off to, and personally break his phone.”

After a brief staring contest in which Michael appears to be seriously considering whether or not Lucifer would actually carry through with that plan, the two finally go to leave.  But Gabriel catches sight of Michael pulling out his Blackberry and twisting around to check it while Lucifer’s back is turned, and Gabriel can only hope that his boss’ phone doesn’t end up shattered in the street.

\---

Lemon Scented Geraniums, "unexpected meeting"

**Author's Note:**

> Purple Hyacinths, "forgiveness"


End file.
